


To Judge a Worm

by Mackerooooons



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Celebrían makes and appearance, Depression, F/M, Flashbacks, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Mae is really struggling, Past Torture, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rebirth, Self-Hatred, Suicidal Thoughts, be careful babies, major guilt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-27
Updated: 2020-09-27
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:34:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26675227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mackerooooons/pseuds/Mackerooooons
Summary: Maedhros is released from the halls. Mostly because they weren't helping. Do the Valar understand menta health? No. Does Fingon? No. How about Maedhros? Heck no.Basically this was a vent fic. My bad month went into this fic. Tread lightly.
Relationships: Celebrían/Elrond Peredhel, Fingon | Findekáno & Maedhros | Maitimo
Comments: 10
Kudos: 47





	To Judge a Worm

Fingon bustled around the kitchen, chattering away about nothing. He seemed to think that it would make the tension cease, but it did nothing. Maedhros tuned him out besides, picking at a crack in the table. A scar in the wood. His tunic covered most of his own scars, but there was a white line that ran from thumb to wrist on the back of his hand. His stump of course was a scar. But it did not resemble the table cracks and scratches in wood. It was ghastly. Maedhros was used to it of course, but it didn't make it pretty.

Fingon had of course been shocked when he had come out with his scars. Out of the Halls. Out of imprisonment, for that was what it was. Deserved or not it was and he could still feel the near permanent horror crawling down his spine, sparking between his shoulder blades, grabbing hold-

_He was weak and the Maia nearly shoved him into a door, a sad light in his paradoxically dark, yet shining eyes. Maedhros stumbled through the stone portal, falling back as it melted shut. The wall closed until not a crack was left, not a line, and he realised what this was, he was trapped again, not in Angband, not by the Oath, not by his body, but by death itself, the one thing that he thought would free him, there was nothing, naught but smooth obsidian floor and smooth obsidian walls lined with tapestries depicting his sins, walls that went up up up to nothing but dark where he could feel Namo's cold black eyes watching him, eyes watching, watching, watching, watching, watching, and they glowed gold with such evil curiosity and pinned him down like an insect, the insect he was, and took him apart with knives and needles and always watching with that thoughtful malice and **pain pain pain pain please stop pain pain pain** \---_

"--itimo! Maitimo, I'm talking to you." Maedhros' gaze shot up from the scratch in the wood to meet Fingon's worried gaze. 

His words tumbled and clogged his throat, and he choked a moment but composed himself. "I'm sorry Finno. What were you saying?" He nodded inwardly. He had pulled that off without a single tremor in his voice. Fingon did not seem fooled, brow still furrowed.

"I was asking you if you wanted ham in your eggs.... like you always used to."

Always used to. That was all Fingon said. Always used to enjoy walks. Always used to wear ornaments. Always used to go to the Havens. (At least he caught himself on that one) Always used to go hunting or riding or paint or read or drink tea or play with Finrod or see Finwë, always used to, always used to. It infuriated Maedhros to no end. Fingon just wanted everything back to Normal. Fingon just wanted to turn back time. 

Fingon just wanted Maitimo back.

But Maitimo was never coming back. He was destroyed, and all that was left was Maedhros. And nobody wanted _him_. He was under no illusions. He knew it better than anyone. But he still couldn't bring himself to see his mother. He was not ready to hear the words from her lips. It would undo him.

So he bought what precious time he could and hid with his cousin. Doubtless Nerdanel knew that he had been set lose, nothing escaped the Tírion gossip mill, but she likely thought that he had rejected her as she soon would reject him. 

Fingon was still looking at him expectantly. He crossed his arms and glowered, tapping his finger on his elbow. His back was straight and eyebrows raised, composure leaving no question as to who had the authority in the situation. It was a look that was entirely Fingon and none Finno. It was not Nelyo's young cousin, it was the look of the King, the King to whom the lord of Himring had sworn allegiance. 

Maedhros would honour that allegiance as he drew breath, for so he had sworn. "Yes. Ham. Please."

Fingon nodded and returned to the pan. "Ham it shall be. Only the best bits of the ham of course. As always, you deserve--

_\--every bit if torture conceivable, but that would satisfy his conscience at least a little, and that was nothing he deserved at all. But just because he deserved the searing weigh of unabated guilt, did not others deserve his retribution? Though that would still ease this weight, and such was not as he deserved. Yet, he could not undo the deeds done with all the helping and humiliation and torture and vengeance conceivable, so perhaps it would not release his guilt, so he could do some good that way. But if it was good, and he was doing it, it would not be good because he was not capable of good, and if it was not good it would be evil and he would do no more of that, and if it was indeed for nothing then there would be no point and it cannot be good because he was not capable of it but he _longed_ to do good, did that not mean-- no because he cannot-- then it would not-- it would be pointless-- but Namo set him lose for a reason and **why** because he was fine in his imprisonment, restrained from others, isolated from people he could hurt, alone with his thoughts and self administered punishment (far from the ideal, silent unmaking that he craved) but it was good. He was nearer to happy than he had thought poss--_

_Oh that was it wasn't it. He was happy._

_Ai, how dense, how utterly thick he had been. All the thought of what he deserved truly, and he looked over the obvious of what he **didn't** deserve. What a delicate process it must be, judging a worm._

Maedhros snapped out of his head just as Fingon placed the plate of eggs before him. Maedhros thanked him curtly and began to eat the first food since his unleashing. And oh _Valar_ it was good. It was _good_ and seared his conscience like a brand as it went down. He froze, the usual confused mantra of justice and pain and desserts echoing once more through his head. And Fingon watched him warily, his own eggs not yet even in his mouth. 

Fingon made them. Perhaps he could force down a few more bites, if only for his cousin. 

It was a struggle, knowing what emotions to display. Happiness at the taste or pain at the gift? Did Fingon even want him to enjoy the food? He made the eggs, of course he did. Unless it was a test. A test to see what he would take and take and take. Or to see if he would give it up for Fingon like Fingon had given up all for him. But Fingon had given him so much likely he would want to give more to continue the patt-- no that was stupid. He wouldn't. He couldn't. Yet...

Maedhros smiled and choked down six more bites before stopping and pushing the plate away. Fingon, who had been put at ease by the smile, looked up in surprise. 

"I am sorry. They are good, but I cannot stomach any more. Perhaps the new body--"

Fingon scoffed. "The new body my foot. You have not eaten since the first age. When I was reborn I nearly ate the tavern clean. If you did not like them you could have simply said so." He scooped up ~~Maedhros'~~ the other plate, and scraped the eggs onto his own. "I won't let you starve though Nelyo, so go fetch yourself an apple and some meat."

Maedhros stood, and made his way to the stores of food as he was told. He found some fruit and a bit of dried meat wrapped in parchment and bound with a thread of silver--

_\-- rope around his waist. It bound the simple white tunic if the dead, and though it was as intangible as he, he could touch it, wrap it around his fingers until they turned purple as if they had blood. The he would remember that he in fact did not have blood, and the sensation would depart. Yet the feeling of cord between his fingers, worried up and down, careful as though it may break... it was familiar as few things were, besides his evil deeds. Silver, silver. That was not right. Silver was twins, princes lost in the snow. Silver was a mad brother, who Maedhros had failed until the brother lost control. Silver was... silver was not right. Not silver, but gold. Gold was important. Gold was..... What was gold? A pit opened in this stomach, and he leaned against the cold black wall and thought of other precious things, three things which had ruined him._

But did they? He knew that the Silmarils had ruined his father and brothers, but was something wholely evil capable of being ruined at all? Was it possible that he had tainted the jewels and they, by him, corrupted everyone else? What if his sons - no, he didn't dare - if the children he had orphaned and stolen were destroyed as well as the others? He bowed his head in shame. 

But Fingon would be expecting him back. He picked up the meat and turned. 

Fingon was directly behind him. 

He started back against the wall, dropping the meat and reaching for a sword that was no longer there, fingers grasping at air in a panic. It was a moment before his mind caught up with what was happening, and registered Fingon as friend not foe. Fingon reached out like he was taming a beast (he was) and placed a hand on Maedhros' shoulder. His eyes were soft and sad. 

"Nelyo." He spoke quietly but the voice blared in Maedhros' mind like a shout. "Nelyo you are not yourself. You are listless and see not what is before you. What happened to you?"

 _What happened to you?_ Too much. Not enough. Maedhros' stomach dropped. This conversation he had dreaded since long before his death. He did not have an answer. Or rather he had one, but he could not bear to speak it, not to Fingon. He turned slightly, bowing his head, hiding behind a curtain of hair. Fingon was undeterred of course, and pushed his head back upright. He hummed thoughtfully, and led Maedhros back to the table, sitting across from him. 

"For now, just tell me why you are scarred. You could have chosen a renewed body, why did you decide to limit yourself?" Fingon frowned at the handless arm on the table. "I thought that you hated your scars."

Mind racing, Maedhros shifted through his options. The most appealing was dishonesty, to shrug it off and hope it was left at that. It's not like he hadn't do worse, so he twisted the truth as well as he could. 

"Much has changed." There. True enough, and implied what Fingon wanted to know. But Fingon just gave him a flat look. Maedhros cursed inwardly. 

There was nothing for it. If Fingon hated him entirely and threw him out on the curb, perhaps it would be for the best. Besides, it wasn't like wanting to keep his scars was any great sin. Probably.

There was an easy approach to this. He licked his lips and began: "Why do you wear gold in your braids?"

Fingon sat back. He blinked three times and protested. "That has nothing to d-"

" **Why** do you wear gold in your braids." 

Fingin blinked again. "Because I like it? Because it compliments my hair? Because it sets me apart in a crowd?"

Maedhros knew this already of course. Part of the reason Finno had started wearing them so that he would be seen, to compensate for his lack of height in comparison to his younger brother. This was the answer Maedhros had wanted. "Exactly."

"And? What does that have to do at all with--" Understanding graced his face. "Nelyo you don't need _scars_ to be seen. You have your hair, and you stand above everyone anyway! It doesn't help that you have the most gloomy countenance in all Tírion!"

Maedhros looked at him unimpressed. Fingon was better at deduction than this. "Fingon." He stood and leaned over he table, taking control of the conversation. Fingon shifted back surprised, having seemingly forgotten how stern his cousin was. "Nelyafinwë used his height, and Russandol his hair, and Maitimo his looks. I am not they. I am Maedhros the Mad Lord of Himring. I am a killer of orcs, men, and Eldar. I am not recognised chiefly by hair or hight and never by beauty. I am recognised by my disfigurement of body and soul. Thus I am and thus I shall be until I am unmade."

He hadn't realised that by the end of his speech that he was nearly shouting. Fingon was pale and looked at him like he'd never met him before. (he hadn't) His face contorted and he cried, "Nelyo do not say that! You are in Tírion, you are home! You can begin again, that is why Namo released you!"

Maedhros could only laugh, sharp and cold. Fingon flinched at the harsh, unmelodious sound. "I want no new beginning, no continuation! I crave only an ending, an unmaking where I am at peace, a destruction I deserve! I crave the void, Finno!" Fingon looked pained to hear his name spoken by such a fell voice but Maedhros plowed ahead. "Namo did not release me unto happiness nor new life. He released me unto punishment, a Doom to hurt those who I love, those who hate me and those who are fool enough to love me."

Fingon rose in contest. "Say not such things, _please!_ You are not healed, you are worse off! I cannot understand why Namo let you come--"

_"--out. Thou art set free." Maedhros looked up at the Mistress Weaver, Vairë herself. He laughed._

_"Hath the Lord Namo wearied of my company? I cannot blame him."_

_Vairë stayed silent, but unrest played in her eyes. She stepped aside to let him out the door, gesturing for him to exit. Maedhros stood jerkily, pushing himself from the corner that he had been wedged in for the past few ages._

_He walked stiffly to the Vala, lowering his eyes respectfully. "We walk to the Gates of Night then?"_

_Vairë looked surprised. "Thou goest not to the Void. Thou hast been released unto Tírion. Thy cousin and truest friend awaiteth thee at the gate. Go to him, and thou shalt find thy peace."_

_"There shall be no peace for me until I am unmade. This new punishment harms the innocent against whom I have done so much. Do not do this to them."_

_He backed into his corner and curled into himself, heart wrenching with the effort. He would not go. He could not. But the thought of seeing Fingon again tore at him._

_But no. This could not be possible. It was a trick, a play on his emotions to see whether he would take up something that selfish. But **Fingon.** Had he not longed for this-_

_Maedhros struck his head against the wall beside him, as he was wont to do when his thoughts neared a tumult. It smarted in an odd, unbodily way. He struck his head again, reveling in the moment of clarity, the simplicity of pain. He moved again, and his skull hit not stone but flesh. He whipped around and stated into the face of Vairë._

_She looked into him with such pity. He hated it. He did not want pity._

_"Son of Nerdanel, thou art released. 'Tis no falsehood nor punishment. Freedom thou need'st, and freedom the Lord Namo has granted thee. This is no question, no request. Thou wilt not refuse, but follow me. Find the peace thou lack'st. Return to life, and to love."_

_With a will that was surely not his own, Maedhros rose and stepped forward._

Fingon was looking at him expectantly. He had seemingly finished a speech. His eyes were watery, and his face red. Tear tracks ran down his cheeks. Maedhros was apparently supposed to respond. But he had missed the speech while he was lost in memory. He didn't know what to say, what would make Fingon feel better. He stared at his cousin with a muted expression, mind reeling in panic. 

Then it stopped. 

Fingon was upset. Fingon was in pain. Because of him and his ridiculous distractions and his-... his-..... 

Him. He did it. Fingon was surely happy before he came back why did he come out, why did be listen-

He needed to go. 

Go.

Maedhros took a step back. He nearly tripped on his chair, and caught it before it hit the floor. His next step was just as uncoordinated and be knocked the chair anyway with a wild swing of his arm. 

He didn't turn. He didn't turn when Fingon called after him in all his Quenya names and he didn't turn when Fingon cried out for him to wait. As soon as he left the door he ran. 

Fingon's house was on a hill in the outskirts of Tírion. It wasn't hard to make it far away, but now he was in the city. 

People stared, glowered, screamed, and Maedhros kept running. There was nothing else he could do. His feet tore on the cobblestone and left bloody foot prints, blood following him through the Elven city. 

Wild-eyed, he stumbled into a familiar courtyard. This square, this fountain, he knew it. This was where they swore. Bile rose in his throat, and he could almost feel the dark tendrils of the Oath curling about his soul. His knees weakened and he nearly fell. His eyes darkened with panic, and the darkness only filled him with more dread. Noldor of Finarfin were watching him, hate and fear filling their gaze. He could feel it.

He covered his mouth with the back of his hand and turned. This was too much for his weakened state, and he toppled backwards, striking his back on the edge of the fountain. He nearly vomited up all of Fingon's eggs then, but forced it down with all his will. Bad enough that he cracked a rib, if he was correct. He was not going to be sick in front of all these Noldor. 

One tightened his fist in a way that made Maedhros brace himself. The Elf stepped forward, shock colouring his features. The Elleth at his side looked at her husband with an unreadable expression. Maedhros was sure he'd seen the Ellon before, and no doubt he had every reason to hate him. Each blow would be deserved. Maedhros stared up at him in expectation. 

"Atya?"

The Ellon's voic cracked in the midst of the word. So Maedhros had killed this Elf's father. Good to know, he supposed. He shifted, and his bruised back protested so that he sunk back against the wall of the fountain. 

"Atya," the Elf breathed again. 

Maedhros wished he'd just get to the point. Hit him or leave him, he didn't truly care, so long as it was done. He needed to get his wind back before Fingon found him. 

The Elf above him knelt and looked at him sadly. "Atya. I had not heard that you had returned. What happened that brings you here, and where are your shoes? Is your back hurt?" The Elf reached forward, and that was when it hit Maedhros. Elrond. This was Elrond. Older, married, and a healer. 

No. No no no no. He did not just flee one person he loved to fall into the hands of another. He couldn't do this. He just wanted to be left alone! He wanted the void, he wanted death. This was not the plan. He surged upright with a cry if pain and pushed off a startled Elrond's shoulder for leverage. He angled his arm the way he needed to relieve his back and ran, each step a jarring pain. 

Elrond wasn't hurt, but Maedhros had both hight and desperation on his side. It didn't take long for the cried if "Atya" to fade from his ears, but never from his mind. 

He ran until the buildings thinned and farms stretched around him. He ran until he couldn't, and stumbled at a walking pace for miles. He didn't know where he was going, but he needed to go.

The road wound away, but he continued straight, a compass arrow east. He ran again when he could, and walked when he couldn't. The fields became trees and the trees because fields and then the sea opened before him. Cliffs decend to a narrow, rocky beach, and far to the north he couldn't glimpse the Swan Havens and see their lights on the dusky sea. 

Bloody water filled the back of his mind and screams, his ears. 

He stumbled down the cliff, and fell a little ways down to land hard in the sand. 

Maedhros stared accross the sea. Beleriand, the land of war, of pain, of death and regret and grief lay under the waters. How many days he had spent longing for home. And yet here he was, wishing to be back there. Back in that place, back in the hardships. Beleriand felt more a home now then Tírion did. He fell to his knees and watched the salt lick the sand. How he longed to be devoured as his land was. 

A voice ghosted through his mind as he watched the tumbling waves. It sang, and it sang of Sorrow that Maedhros felt like none other. 

It sang a once noble house now ruined and hated. It sang a once proud people now only a remnant. It sang regret, mistakes, evil and guilt, it sang _pain_. And Maedhros joined his voice to it. 

And two brothers looked out over the same sea and sang in a union that none can sever.


End file.
